


Don't Let These Shakes Go On

by SonjaJade



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Suicide, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24408274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonjaJade/pseuds/SonjaJade
Summary: When Chris picks her nephew up from the station, she hardly recognizes him. When he talks with her later alone, she wonders how he held on to any shred of his identity.
Relationships: Chris "Madam Christmas" Mustang & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 6
Kudos: 94
Collections: Moms Made Fullmetal Week 2020





	Don't Let These Shakes Go On

**Author's Note:**

> DAY 4: Victory
> 
> Title taken from a Blue Oyster Cult song called "Veteran of the Psychic Wars"

When Chris hears the train whistling into the berth at 3:47pm, she knows it won’t be much longer and her Roy-Boy will be home, at last, from the war in Ishval. Six weeks furlough time before being shipped out to East City and given command of his own unit. He’d begged her in his phone call not to meet him in the station itself, but to sit in the car and wait at the curb in front of their favorite doughnut shop that sits directly across the street.

And so here she waits, smoking a cigarette and mentally doing the crossword. She broke the point of her pencil and didn’t feel like sharpening it, now that it was so close to time to bringing her nephew home. Her dark eyes scan the throngs of people milling about every few minutes, searching for his face. A dark headed man approaches her, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s no stranger, but a sunburned and gaunt young man she’d raised from the age of seven.

Her cigarette threatens to land in her lap, so she quickly closes her mouth. “What did they do to you out there?” she breathes, unable to believe this is the same Roy Mustang.

He opens the passenger door, throws his bag into the back seat and climbs in. “They put me through hell, Madame.”

“I believe it,” she murmurs, starting the engine. 

“Let’s go home,” he says, giving her a tired smile that does nothing to light his face up with any genuine happiness. She nods and drops the engine into gear, getting them to the bar as soon as she can.

It doesn’t take long to get there, and even less time to get inside and up to his old room. His sisters hurry to greet him, but he makes an immediate excuse of being worn out from the journey. They all tell him to get some rest and promise to give him all the hugs and kisses he can stand in the morning, but Chris is skeptical.

She follows him into the room to be sure he doesn’t pass out before taking his shoes off, and he abruptly turns around and gathers her up in his arms. Chris is shocked- they rarely exchange physical affection apart from maybe a pat on the arm or shoulder, so when he rests his head on her shoulder, his face buried in the side of her neck, she swallows and feels her eyes begin to well up with stinging tears.

“It’s alright,” she whispers, her arms now clutching at him just as tightly. “You’re safe here, safer than anywhere in the world.”

She knows he’s trying not to cry, but she also knows he’s failing miserably. He’s hurting, and not the kind of hurt you give a pill or elixir for. He’s soul hurt, cut to the bone by the blood and slaughter of the war… She saw it in her father, Roy’s grandfather. She’s seen it in plenty of johns she’s serviced and drunks she’s waited on. Now she sees it in Roy, and that makes her sick.

Eventually, he gives in and just lets it out, right there into the fur around her neck, tears, snot and all. Chris guides him to sit on the bed and closes the door behind them.

“How much scotch do we have?” he asks.

Her brows draw together over her eyes. “Two cases, maybe three. Why?”

Roy sniffles, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I can’t sleep unless I’m stone drunk. The nightmares won’t let me.” Like a teenage boy, he kicks his new loafers off without a care, rips his vest off and flings it blindly, and tugs the tail of his shirt from his trousers. “It was so awful, Madame… I don’t even have the words to describe it.”

He sits cross legged on the bed and Chris sits beside him, one arm around his back and her other in his lap, holding his hand. “Honey, it’s over now. You’ve served your required time, you don’t have to go back.”

“It won’t bring  _ them _ back!” he sobs. “It won’t bring back the  _ babies _ I killed! The unarmed people, the elderly and sick who were harmless!” His body shakes with sorrow as he weeps and Chris can’t help but feel his pain right alongside him. “And while that was worse than anything I ever imagined, Riza was there, too!”

“Hawkeye’s girl?” He nods, resting his elbows on his knees and crying into his hands. “What on earth was  _ she _ doing there?” she asks quietly.

It takes him a moment to gather himself so he can answer her, but Chris is as patient as can be with him. Finally, he tells her she was originally going to kill him, for using her gift of her father’s flame alchemy to murder people. “She changed her mind when she saw the state I was in. She saw I didn’t want to do it, and she figured my suffering was penance enough, I guess.”

“Soldier?” she asks, rubbing his back.

“Sniper. She said every kill she got was one less that died by my hands.” He looked over at her, his eyes red, his face streaked and glistening, and his bottom lip quivering. “She made me burn it off her back.” He tells her that the day the shooting stopped, she made him burn enough of the skin on her back that the array would be illegible, meaning he would be the one and only flame alchemist. He shakes when he tells her that Riza bit down on her clothing to keep from screaming with pain. He pauses to catch his breath before he tells her how bad the skin bubbled and melted, and how she refused to let him bandage it before pulling her shirt back on. 

“God, Roy…” she whispers, unable to find the words to comfort him. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that horror in the desert.”

“As long as I live, I’ll never understand why it had to be done,” he says, wiping at his face again and sniffling. “Those people were out there minding their own business… The buildings weren’t fortified bunkers, they were homes and shops! And it was like every gun barrel in the world pointed at them and said, ‘Wipe it out’. Madame…” He shakes his head. “Mothers were sometimes carrying three children, running as fast as they could away from the explosions. My orders were to incinerate them, in any way necessary.” He whines that he can still hear the sound of their screams, the sound of leather sandals slapping the hard packed sand, and the sound of his fellow soldiers cheering when they’d clear out one of the districts.

Chris closes her eyes. Kissing his forehead, she says quietly, “I think we both need a drink. I’ll be right back.”

“Can I have a cigarette?” he asks before she reaches the door. She tosses both her lighter and her pack of smokes so that they land on the bed beside him, then goes down to grab two bottles of scotch, one for them both.

When she comes back, he’s dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a dingy pair of athletic pants. He’s got a dripping washcloth in one hand and the lit cigarette in the other, and his face is clean. Chris unceremoniously opens one of the bottles for him and swaps him for the wet cloth. Without batting an eye, he downs a quarter of the bottle before placing it on the nightstand. She opens her bottle and matches him, though it takes her more than one gulp to get there.

He sighs and sits back down on the bed. “I’m sorry for getting all emotional.”

“If you didn’t, I’d be a little concerned, Roy-Boy.” She sits beside him again, motioning for her cigarettes. He lights it for her with the lighter and they enjoy a moment of silence. Chris is the one who breaks it.

“They’re calling you ‘The Hero of Ishval’ in the papers,” she says, kicking her own shoes off.

He grumbles, “That would imply there was a victory. There’s nothing victorious about slaughtering unarmed people in the street.” He gives her a cold stare. “Do not ever call me that. Tell the girls not to, either.”

While his expression is unsettling, his words make sense. “I’ll let ‘em know.” On the heels of that statement:

“You know, your grandfather came home like this, right after the first battle at the Briggs Mountain. He got upset anytime me or Mother wore a red dress. Said it reminded him of all the blood in the snow.” She turned to Roy. “If you love me, promise me you won’t blow your own head off like he did.”

To her surprise, he throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Madame, if I was gonna do that, I woulda done it by now!” He laughs more, then takes another long drink from the bottle by the bed. “Trust me, I thought about it. A lot.”

“Well, whatever kept you from doing it, that’s what you need to live for,” she says, patting his knee.

Sighing, he whispers in her ear, “Right now, it’s still a fresh wound, but it’ll heal. And when it does, I’m going straight to the top, right to the Fuhrer’s seat. I’ll turn this nation around and do what I can to rebuild Ishval. When that happens,  _ then _ you can call me ‘The Hero of Ishval’.” He laughs, clearly beyond tipsy now, and drinks more of the scotch she brought him.

“Your liver’s gonna hate you if you keep drinking like this. Your head’s gonna hate you in the morning as it is,” she cautions.

“Eh, I won’t do it forever.” He takes another cigarette from her pack and tucks it behind his ear. “I got maybe twenty minutes before I blackout anyway.”

Chris sighs. “You heal up, take as much booze and smokes as you want. And when it’s time, I’ll help you to the top however I can.”

“I know,” he slurs. “I love you, Madame, I don’t think I coulda went through all that if anyone else had raised me.”

She kisses his forehead, smooching loudly and leaving lipstick behind. “Welcome home, honey. I’ll have brunch brought up to you when you wake up, just press the buzzer.” He gives her the sloppiest salute she’s ever seen and she can’t help a chuckle as he flops into bed.

* * *

Nearly fifteen years later, she stands inside a fine marble building with a view of an oasis from the window. Champagne flutes sit in various places across the room, and she knows everyone apart from a handful of people. She watches Roy shake hands with various officials and members of the brass, hears the celebrations going on outside, but none of that means as much to her as the genuine smile on Roy’s face. It makes his eyes crinkle at corners, makes them light up with joy- even distracts from that stupid mustache he’s trying to grow.

And he’s got every right to be so elated. The rebuild of Ishval is complete, and governing powers have been restored to the people living there.

She’s spent most of her time chatting with his subordinates that helped him get so far. The young lady whom she helped to smuggle out to Xing is there as well, in addition to the Isvalan criminal from several years back. Lots of reporters are milling around, asking everything under the sun about the Ishvalan project, but they all stop when the fireworks go off in the distant wasteland. The cheering shakes the floor, and Chris can’t recall the last time she was so proud of her nephew.

Roy wanders to her side while everyone’s distracted with the pyrotechnic display. “Are you having a good time, Madame?” he asks.

She grins at him. “The best victory celebration I’ve ever attended, no doubt.”

He winks at her. “Not a full victory just yet.” Chris gives him a confused look, and watches as he commands the attention of everyone in the room by tapping his glass with the edge of his pocket watch. “Before I let you go for the evening, there’s one last loose end I’d like to tie up.” He gestures to Riza, and Chris’ stomach flutters excitedly. 

Riza is the epitome of calm, cool and collected at the extra attention. Roy tells the press he could not have asked for a better adjutant to keep him focused on all his tasks, and swears Ishval would be two years behind schedule without her dedication. He credits her with making paperwork move smoothly and quickly, and therefore getting Ishval rebuilt in the fastest way possible.

“Col. Hawkeye means more to me than anyone knows. We were childhood friends, compatriots, and have served this nation in our highest capacities over the years. However, there’s something I’ve always wanted to do when we reached this point in our careers.”

Chris notices that Riza’s composure has begun to slip. Her eyes are widened slightly and she looks as if she’s holding her breath. She watches the boys from his office nudge each other, and the reporters in the room haven’t stopped writing in their notepads since Roy started speaking.

“Colonel… Riza…”

“Oh my god,” Chris breathes. Roy’s red headed Breda lightly elbows her and asks if she’d like to place any bets, but she shoos him away.

In probably the most graceful move he’s ever done, Roy gets down on one knee and pulls a small box from his dress uniform. “I wouldn’t be here without you. Our lives have been intertwined in some way for over twenty five years. We’ve seen the worst this world has to offer together- will you stay with me to see the best, and be my wife?”

Bright flash bulbs illuminate their blushing faces, reporters thrust microphones in their direction- and everyone waits with baited breath to see what Riza’s answer will be. The entire room watches as she gets down on one knee in front of him, and a confused murmur breaks out.

In a clear voice, she responds, “I will only accept if you promise to shave that mustache off.”

He hands her the box, claps his hands, and touches his lip. The hair falls away as if a magician has waved a wand and cast a spell on it. After brushing his uniform clean, he takes the box and holds it out to her again. “Riza Hawkeye, will you marry me?”

She gets to her feet, reaches for his hand, and hauls him up as well. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him, and the entire room erupts into cheers and applause. Chris has to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief.  _ Now _ it’s a complete victory.


End file.
